


abysmal oceans (where good girls go to die)

by notorious



Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/F, I mean, highly experimental fic, meaning i cannot be held accountable, mommy kink if you squint, this is hella au and idk anything abt it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notorious/pseuds/notorious
Summary: Hope doesn't have feelings for Lizzie —— until she does.But those were an accident.
Relationships: Hope Mikaelson/Lizzie Saltzman
Comments: 12
Kudos: 187





	abysmal oceans (where good girls go to die)

**Author's Note:**

> tried to write this in third person, didn't fuckin work. so here's this. started as angst based on whatever love is by kingston hythe. turned into an excuse for me to write filth. no idea. title from bad intentions by niykee heaton. mostly unedited, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> times are tuff so if you like what i do, consider buying me a "coffee" right [here](https://ko-fi.com/danceswithghosts) !!

_Whatever love is,_ you think, _we all know a variation._

Dr. Saltzman knows loss and life. Jo's gone. He's still got Lizzie and Josie, but if Caroline doesn't figure something out soon he's going to lose one of them, too. He lost the school once and along with it the life in his eyes. When he got it back there wasn't a scrap of doubt in your mind that his eyes were more alive than they'd ever been. You could see it in his smile — the little one, the one he tried so hard to hide, the one that oozed pride whenever he looked at his kids — and you could see it in the mornings as more and more days passed between hangovers, though you and his daughters may have been the only ones to notice those. You hear it in his heart, too, because there's a certain way it beats when he's frustrated but happy about it because he'd rather be cleaning up after supernatural adolescents than just about anything else. You see it when he looks at you in that new way, the _I'm so sorry I forgot you_ way that also says _I'd go to Malivore and back a thousand times before I let that happen again._ You see Dr. Saltzman, _living,_ and you know just how much love he has for the people in his world for him to still be alive.

Penelope was first selfish and then sacrificial with love, and you cannot blame her for that. You're almost glad she's gone because it's better for her away from here, and it's better for Josie, too. Neither of them could've moved on in a shared environment, not when theirs was so charged. For taking herself out of the equation, you think, Penelope did right by Josie. No matter how much it stung her to leave. You know firsthand how it feels to throw yourself on the sword for the greater good, and so for that Penelope has your respect.

For Josie, love comes in dualities: Josie and Dad; Josie and Lizzie; Josie and Penelope; Josie and _you,_ sometimes, though the time has never been right, and you doubt it ever will be. Josie has trouble with the solitary aspect of life and love, and whether that's a twin thing or a codependent thing you aren't sure, but you think the codependency sprouted from twinship, so it's probably a _both_ thing. Love in duality is a good thing sometimes, though, and sometimes you're jealous of she and Lizzie for having their soul in another human. For having someone unconditionally by their side. But it's not all sunshine and roses, you know, and that's what scares you about duality: it makes loss that much harder. Josie, too, knows love unconditionally. Once you have hers it's rare you'll ever be without it again. You don't know how exactly she sees the world but when you try to imagine it you get stuck somewhere around _what is it to look at someone and see only light despite their flaws?_ You sort of get it, because Dr. Saltzman may as well be your own father, and _okay,_ yes, you love him, and he has always been beautifully flawed.

Landon loves cautiously, that's his brand. He's been thrown around the foster system enough to know not to go attaching himself to just anyone who walks through the door. He also loves wholly, like Josie, but not all at once. Where she gives her trust and let's you prove your loyalty along the way, Landon waits for you to prove yourself and then gives you all he has to offer. No holding back. Loyalty goes a long way with him, as it does with many of your friends, but to him you believe it means more because it's one of the few things he has been able to carry with him from home to home over the years. Raf being the best example. Prove to Landon your heart is with him no matter the distance between you and you'll have him for life, no matter the obstacles. There is no demand with Landon's love, only one simple question: _Keep me in your heart?_

Rafael is different in that he loves hopefully. He hopes you'll care for him, hopes you'll give him a place, and hopes beyond hope that none of it will crumble. He knows fear and he knows triumph, and together they make what _you_ are supposed to stand for. Raf hopes for stability, and he hopes for his brother, and he hopes for a tribe that does not feel temporary as all the homes he's lived in have. He hopes not to be too vulnerable, but sometimes he is without meaning to be. You've seen his fear in those moments. You've seen his hope waver, but you've also seen him pull through. You've seen Raf love fast, and you've seen him love slow. You don't think he's capable of loving lightly because when he does it is with his whole head and heart, and it is always selfless. That impresses you because while you have managed selflessness in love before you have never been able to do it without your heart pleading with you to — for _once_ — be as selfish as can be.

Sometimes you don't like watching MG love. He does it so sweetly, with such an undertone of purity, that it's hard not to pity him on occasion. Something will break his heart one day — the world or a person — and you worry you won't be around to help pick up the pieces when hurt inevitably shatters him. He'll react emotionally, this you know, but you worry it may come with violence. His love is hazardous that way. He's killed before, not because he wanted to kill, but because he doesn't know how to pull himself back from the edge once he's reached it. He just — _jumps._ You suppose you'll worry about love getting the best of him until the day he conquers his cravings, emotional and physical alike. It's natural for a vampire to crave just as it is natural for a human to love. In MG they become one, and it is as chaste as it is dangerous. It's worse when you — yes, _you_ — know the girl who has his heart will never give him hers because — 

— aw, hell —

— _because_ — 

_You_ have it.

You didn't even want it, but Josie was right. Something changed that night, the _You had a crush on me? Of course I did_ night. Everything changed. Not you, not at first, but overnight Lizzie did an about-face and it damn near knocked you on your ass.

You noticed it first in study hall when you were studying the magical properties of minerals and she was supposed to be studying Latin orthography but was studying you instead. Her eyes felt like hot coals on the back of your neck and for a short time you were certain it was under Lizzie Saltzman's gaze that you were finally going to burn. So you looked back at her, and you looked hard, because you did not appreciate being under a microscope when you had a paper to write. It was a new look you found in her eyes, one you'd never seen before, both scrutinizing and puzzled, like she was genuinely searching for something of value instead of for a surface fault by which to rip you open. Lizzie being Lizzie, that's what you chalked it up to; an unpredictable girl doing unpredictable things — nothing new.

Two days later you caught her staring at you across the dining hall while you had your nose in _A Short History of Myth._ This time her eyes were narrowed and her lips were pressed into a thin line that reminded you of her father's attempts at formality when he was forced to admonish you for reckless but necessary routes taken to save the student body. You let her stare that time, both for the sake of the fifteen minutes you had left to read before class and because meeting the weight of her gaze would've been a lot right then and you were tired that day. That you read and re-read the same sentence until lunch wrapped up should have told you something, but you're fairly certain you've always known how distracting Lizzie Saltzman can be.

The word was convenient for first noticing Lizzie's newfangled interest in you during study hall, but by the end of the week you understood that she truly was _studying_ you. When her eyes lingered on your legs in the hall you prayed your walk didn't look too much like a strut because you had nothing to prove and you were literally just trying to get to class on time. When your time in the lounge overlapped it grew increasingly difficult to focus on tasks at hand because Lizzie seemed not to be trying to focus at all, unless it was on you. Your shared classes were the worst because while she never she picked you for partnered activities she'd always check on you out of the corner of her eye to watch how you meshed with whoever you did work with.

It was an honest kind of scrutiny, you realized one day, because while she never carried malice in her eyes there sure was a lot of curiosity.

Maybe she was plotting, getting better at hiding it.

Maybe she was having a change of heart.

Maybe she just liked watching you.

None of those sounded great to you, but she wouldn’t quit it.

You tried to get used to it, but when had Lizzie Saltzman ever made anything easy for anyone?

You were reading on the lawn one afternoon, spread out on a blanket with a thermos of tea and a napkin-wrapped doughnut, swathed in fluff because you hadn't been able to focus recently — Lizzie's fault, surely — and the only literature you could readily consume was cloudy romance. It was historical love-triangle fiction, and you didn't hate it as you'd originally expected. Then you came to a line that read ‘fetching as a flower, she captured the heart of mine own brother, an intellectual man, and if he loved her I had to know from what his love was born, for his past loves were not of beauty but of rich acuity and she should be no different; and so I studied her, for I _had_ to know, and oh what a mistake it was to study, because affection began to swell my —’ and that's where you stopped reading.

“My whole life,” you heard Josie say like it was yesterday, “any time I've ever liked _anyone,_ you go for them. And you _always_ win.”

_Oh,_ you thought, _oh no._

You never finished the historical love-triangle novel. Or ate that doughnut.

You spent the next week trying to convince yourself that Lizzie was not, in fact, studying you, because the implications were damning and you weren’t ready to be dragged down. But that was the same week you started watching — _studying_ — her, too. You didn’t mean to, but things happen like that. You began to notice things, little things, and as your father’s daughter you know full well how the smallest things have a wicked habit of becoming the grandest. First it was the way she fiddled with her pen while she wrote, how she reset her grip at intervals of sixty seconds to keep her hand from cramping up. Then it was the angle her brows took when she could not recall the correct spelling of a word; her eyes went for the ceiling when that happened, and her lips moved silently as one by one she laid out the letters in her head. After that it was her shoulders, squared back when she was passionate, rounded forward in defense when she knew she was wrong but was as yet unwilling to concede, though you wouldn’t catch the latter unless you knew when _Lizzie_ knew she was wrong, and you had no fucking clue when you gained a gauge for that.

Every new thing you noticed added a stone to the pile that would become your sympathy, next your admiration, and ultimately your affection for Elizabeth Saltzman. You should have known it would happen, or shouldn’t have thought _it’s_ ** _Lizzie_** _, it won’t happen,_ or perhaps you should’ve finished that stupid historical fluff because, spoiler alert, it happened there, too. Big time.

Avoiding her didn’t work because she had a miraculous knack for tracking you down, and when she didn’t there was always _someone_ in the vicinity with her name in their mouth. You tried to play it cool, play it normal, but somewhere along the way you forgot what normal was. You'd always sat between the twins when it was the three of you together, it’s where you gravitated to, but there were new things to consider. Like how many times Lizzie managed to bump knees with you, or how she insisted on picking from _your_ plate instead of Josie’s when one dessert was not enough, or how she cradled your hand in both of hers and brushed your knuckles with her thumb when you got a new ring and she wanted a closer look. What surprised you most was how little these things bothered you, how quickly Lizzie in your personal space became normal.

A month later you’d all but forgotten what was _actually_ happening in favor of studying for midterms. You studied with Lizzie most afternoons because she took surprisingly diligent notes and was patient with you where you were impatient with yourself. You had a knack for philosophical analysis where she defaulted to the literal, so it went both ways. Afternoons studying flowed into evenings over tea, into late dinners at the kitchen counter, into midnight wind-downs of sitcoms and tired giggles. Mornings brought a single large latte poured into two small cups, classes you didn’t share became periods of waiting for time to pass so you could walk shoulder-to-shoulder to the next. All the while she was still Lizzie, still took jabs at you when conversation permitted, still rolled her eyes when you got righteous, _always_ got wide-eyed and smirky when you turned grumpy, but you missed the point where you stopped seeing these as slights and started taking them as flattery.

Fifteen minutes after you sat an extra twenty on your last midterm so you and Lizzie would finish at the same time Kaleb texted you the link to Urban Dictionary’s definition of ‘useless lesbian.’ It felt like an accusation and made you want to isolate. You told Lizzie you were drained and spent the rest of that day in your dorm with your phone on Do Not Disturb and your hand in a bag of self-pity-Doritos. You didn’t let yourself think about it because you weren’t sure you were ready for the answer.

And then the post-midterm party at the old mill happened.

You almost didn’t go, but you wanted a drink, and you wanted to people-watch, so you slunk out to join the ruckus.

Maybe two-am Lizzie found you sitting on your lonesome with your back against a tree and your head in the stars. She handed you a beer — your fifth, maybe, but you weren’t counting, you were too busy _being_ — and sat close at your side so your shoulders touched and your knees bumped and with the addition of her body heat you realized how chilly it was.

“We could play spin the bottle,” Lizzie said, and you looked at her like she had three heads. With the amount of booze gone to your brain she may as well have. You thought you wouldn’t mind if she _did,_ so long as they all looked like her. You didn’t know what you were thinking, but something told you it was mighty fine to have thought it.

“Lizzie,” you began, slowly, like you were talking to a child, but not unkindly. “It’s literally just the two of us. That’s not much of a game.”

“But.” She didn’t finish, but you swore you could hear her say _I want to play with you,_ and the idea didn’t turn you off like it should have. 

You said, “Just us two,” like it needed saying again, but mostly because you didn’t know what else to tell her.

You’d felt a lot of magic in your young life, enough to know that it could knock you off your feet and breathe life into your bones all at once, but you’d never felt anything quite like what was in the air when Lizzie looked at you then. Something like slotting a fork into a live outlet, that was your closest approximation at the time. You don’t know what to call what you saw in her eyes under the tree that night, but you know she must have seen something in yours, something worth her while because —

“Let’s play anyway,” she said, and surged forward.

You must’ve given her something, or Elizabeth Saltzman would not have kissed you for the first time that night beneath the stars, under a tree, and out behind the old mill while the rest of the heathens drank themselves silly.

You didn’t say anything after Lizzie kissed you. You shot up and spilled your beer and tore into the trees and let your wolf tear through your clothes. Which, as you know now, you should not have done, because Lizzie wouldn’t even look at you for the next three days and it felt like losing the extra limb you never noticed you’d grown.

Three days you spent on your lonesome, head down, and hating yourself for reacting so strongly. Exactly seventy-four different reactions, that’s how many came to mind over those three days, and you went and picked the one that made Lizzie Saltzman — the girl who has never been afraid to stare someone down — unable to look you in the eye. 

She didn’t tell anyone what happened, word would have gotten back to you if she had, but it still felt like everyone else was staring at you while you went about your time. Nothing new, they’d always stared, but their eyes stung like ice on the back of your neck and at a day and a half you realized that you missed when it was Lizzie because at least her eyes were warm on your skin.

Josie didn’t know anything, but she may as well have because she could tell something changed between you and her sister. She asked you if you and Lizzie fought and you told her _sort of_ because it was easier than any other excuse. She told you she hoped the two of you worked it out, left you with a shoulder squeeze, and left you alone, and you sort of hated how grateful you were to not have to talk to her about it.

On day three you got fed up with being fed up and cornered Lizzie in the library the first time you caught her alone since the party.

“You’re avoiding me,” that’s what you told her.

“So what if I am?”

“It’s childish,” you said, and it was the wrong thing to say.

The air tightened around the two of you and Lizzie’s knuckles went white, then her hand glowed red, around the grimoire she was clutching onto for dear life.

“Childish?” she asked cooly, and though you were indoors a brisk wind picked up. It licked at your hair and knocked open a pair of books lying on a nearby tabletop. “ _Childish?_ You’re the one who up and ran because of a kiss. A _kiss,_ Hope. If you want to talk about childish, let’s talk about that.”

“I know,” you said quietly. You still didn’t like thinking about running.

She looked at you, eyes wide and angry and hopeful all at once, and then it was her turn to go quiet. Barely a whisper, just loud enough to catch your ears despite you being ready to hang on to every word: “Do I repulse you _that_ much that your first instinct was to _literally_ run away from me?”

“Lizzie — no,” you began to say, and stepped closer.

“Don’t,” she warned, and the wind picked up again.

You stopped in your tracks and stayed rooted to the spot until the air stilled and you let out your breath.

“You don’t repulse me,” you said, hating having to repeat the word. It tasted age-old and rough on your tongue and you longed for something soft to soothe the grit.

“But you ran.”

“I did.”

“I didn’t like that.”

“I know.”

You didn’t notice yourself stepping closer to her.

“It made me feel worthless.”

“I know,” you said again.

Closer now.

“Unwanted.”

You _did_ notice the lack of wind when you got close enough to reach out and lay a tentative hand on her arm. And how warm she was, you noticed that, too.

“I got scared,” you admitted for the first time aloud. Not sure you’d admitted it internally, either. Vulnerability always caught you by the throat when you needed it to let you go most. “I didn’t think you were going to —”

“What?” she spit out, but made no move to pull away. “Show you how I _feel?_ ”

Well.

_Yeah_ , you thought, that was exactly it. Last thing you’d been expecting was exactly what she went and did that night. And _no_ , before then, you hadn’t known how she felt about you. Suspicions, sure, you had those, but no surefire knowledge until she kissed you.

“I didn’t know you were going to just — _kiss_ me,” you said. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” She didn’t sound like she believed you.

“ _Yes,_ ” you promised, your hand skirting up her arm until your fingertips brushed her neck and you felt her skin prickle with goosebumps. She was warmer there.

Scared, you understood at once, that’s how she looked, so you went on:

“If you’d warned me, maybe I’d have — I don’t know — maybe I wouldn’t have reacted so strongly.”

Lizzie softened in an instant at that. It was a bit sad, you thought, because you’d barely given her anything yet, and if so little were enough to pull her from the depths you wondered how far a declaration of true love would take her. Not that you were in love with her, not then, not yet, but you knew love was the least she deserved after so many turns with rejection.

From Raf.

Sebastian.

From Dr. Saltzman, every time he up and took you with him on his latest supernatural expedition and left the twins in the dark and behind at school.

And from you, just the once. That Night, as you were beginning to think of it.

She’d learned to expect rejection from her father, which was likely the worst fare of them all, but she’d yet to reach that point with her crushes. A twisted sort of innocence had its grasp on Lizzie, wouldn’t let her expect anything but a fairytale from her love interests. No matter how many times she was let down. It was heartbreaking, really, how hopeful she remained in love.

That’s what made you want to shield her from a world that was so cruel with all its twists and turns and plunges of the knife. You wanted to preserve her —

— her _hope._

That pesky word.

“ _Hope._ ”

It took you a moment to pull yourself back from the inclinations of righteousness that were beginning to fill your head as your heart ached to take Lizzie’s and keep it safe. You didn’t want her to hurt any longer, you realized, ever, if you could help it.

“Where’d you go?” she muttered, looking worried, and it was only then you noticed she’d taken your hand. You could barely remember the last thing you said, but as she clutched your hand to her chest, over her heart, you knew what you could do.

You’d been lost in your head, but you had the words.

“I won’t lie to you,” you started, staring at your hand clasped in hers. “I don’t know what my feelings for you are, _if_ they are, and I don’t know how to figure that out besides _trying. . ._ with you.” She lit up. You shook your head. “But I don’t want to lead you on, and I can’t promise that I won’t if we — try.”

“Hope.”

If you knew anything after that it was only how sweet your name sounded on her lips, and you wondered, to her, how it tasted on her tongue. The first — and only — time you’d kissed Lizzie she’d tasted like beer and tequila and cranberry juice, maybe lemonade, if you remembered correctly, and now you wondered what she tasted like when she was just _Lizzie._

You were getting lost again.

“Yes?”

“Now that you’ve warned me of your intentions,” she began, teasing.

“Yes,” you said again, because that’s exactly what you’d done and it was the only word you could find. It didn’t worry you how easily words could come and go in her presence.

“I’m going to kiss you,” she said finally. “And if you run again, I’ll kill you.”

You couldn’t say that wasn’t fair.

When Lizzie kissed you for the second time you were ready for it, ready for _her,_ and running never once crossed your mind.

It was chaste until it wasn’t. The grimoire toppled from her arms and landed somewhere at your feet, she took you by your face, and you sunk into her without a second thought. _This_ _helps_ , you thought, with every passing moment drawing closer and closer to what you actually felt for Elizabeth Saltzman.

Mostly you felt _right._

That didn’t change.

Two weeks later you tumbled into bed — yours, never hers, you were still skirting the Josie boundary — for what would be The First Time. She felt right to you then, too, and you to her. Every piece fell perfectly together: her mouth on your cheeks, your neck, your chest; your hands skimming down her back, over the planes of her thighs, grasping at skin you didn’t think you’d ever be ready to let go of. When she wrapped her hand around your throat in the heat of the moment you saw stars and swore it the second most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You knew your feelings good and well by then. Good things happen fast, they said, and you didn’t know who _they_ were, but you reckon they hit that one on the nose. 

A week after that, when you both understood how serious you were becoming, you sat side by side and told Josie. “Oh,” was all she said, and left. Neither you nor Lizzie liked that very much, but it beat what you were expecting, so you left it alone. Lizzie promised her sister would come around, or learn to tolerate it, or grow to ignore it, and while you didn’t love that you let it be. Blissful ignorance of what was right in front of her rather than outright upset may have been what was best for Josie at the time. And Lizzie was right, she came around.

Only after you made your case, but Lizzie didn’t need to know about that part. And, God bless her, Josie agreed.

“You were right,” you told Josie. “She only went for me after she knew you liked me.”

There were more moving pieces than that, more than you could count, but simple honesty won out. You could explain the rest better once that much was out on the table.

“When it comes to Lizzie,” Josie said, “I’m rarely ever wrong. Why do you think I waited until _years_ after I got over you to say something about it?”

_Because we backed you into a corner,_ you thought, _and you wouldn’t have said anything at all if we hadn’t._ But you couldn’t say that, so you didn’t, and instead just looked at your hands to keep from saying too much with your face. “I don’t think it was as simple as ‘my sister likes Hope, so I have to get her before she does,’” you told her.

“You know her better than I do now, is that it?” She didn’t sound angry, just hurt, and that was worse.

It wasn’t your place to comfort her, nor was it in your right to lecture Josie on her own twin sister, and there wasn’t much you _could_ think of that wouldn’t demonize yourself. Which, okay, you were fine with doing, but were sick of people agreeing with you on the topic. A bite from your own mouth always stung less, but still stung.

“No, it’s not like that,” you said. “What _I_ think happened is after she found out you used to like me, she wanted to know why. I think she was just trying to understand, Jo. I don’t think it was supposed to go this far.”

Josie narrowed her eyes at you, looked at you long and hard, like she was expecting you to break and admit it was all a joke. “You’re telling me it was an accident?” she asked when she didn’t find what she was looking for in your face.

“For lack of a better word, yes.”

“Okay,” she decided after a while. “I don’t want you to tell her we talked about this — she’ll get in her head about it. And no PDA in my room. Got that?”

Yeah, you could manage that much.

Lizzie, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.

First there was the late night you asked her to study — _yes,_ actually study — because you couldn’t sleep, and she called you up to her dorm, and when you showed up with an armful of textbooks she met you at the door in the tiniest fucking pajama set you’d ever seen and you wound up having to pick your jaw _and_ your books up off the floor. The noise woke Josie and before any of you could get a word out you dragged Lizzie down to the library where, decidedly, no studying was done.

Then there was the time in _your_ dorm after Pedro happened upon you and Lizzie kissing in the garden and she told him that sometimes, with special spells, witches needed to do special things to access the right kind of magic. You weren’t sure that was the best thing to tell a kid his age, but he scampered off before you could recant Lizzie’s statement. You dragged her to your dorm after that, safe away from prying eyes, and told her maybe you should both start telling people _don’t worry about it_ when they asked questions. She told _you_ not to worry about it and spell-bound your hands to the headboard and had her way with you. Two hours later you were spent and drifting in and out of sleep with your head on Lizzie’s bare chest when Josie burst in with tears in her eyes. Later you’d learn Caroline wasn’t coming home for Christmas, but at the time all you got was a surprised squeak and, “Shit — sorry — was looking for Lizzie — I’ll — I’ll let you — I’ll go. Sorry.” And then she was gone, and you began to wonder where _could_ you and Lizzie hole up alone without interruption. You didn’t like thinking it; Josie would always need Lizzie more than you did, hiding away wouldn’t change that, but you still wondered.

For maybe a week after that the two of you were careful. It didn’t last.

The second time the two of you got caught by a Saltzman was horrifying, to put it lightly.

And you want to make something clear: Lizzie Saltzman does not have a daddy kink. Neither do you, for that matter, but you both skirt the line. Lizzie’s thing is closer to _issues_ , you think, and you don’t know which way you yourself lean on the topic of parental matters, but you know what happens when you put Lizzie on your lap and peel off her shirt and take her chest with your mouth and palm her backside with your heavy hands. Lizzie winds her hands in your hair, tugs hard on auburn waves, and sighs out _daddy_ like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that’s what happens. 

The first time caught you off guard and your mind went right to Dr. Saltzman and you were more than a little put off about _that,_ but the second time Lizzie told you _fuck me_ and _want you to fill me, daddy,_ you knew you were a lost cause. Sweet as sugar and dripping with desire, there was no shortage of things Lizzie’s voice could convince you to do.

Like the time she snuck you into her bed after hours and talked you into taking her with a strap while Josie slept eight feet away. You only got away with that once you gagged her with her own panties and slapped your hand over her mouth for good measure. You missed the siphon’s soft crooning while you fucked her, longed for those little whines in your ear, but settled for listening to the soft squish of your silicone cock stretching her cunt.

There was the time on the road trip, packed into a minivan with the whole squad, you wedged between the twins and sharing a blanket with Lizzie. “Quiet, daddy,” she’d cooed, real soft, right into your ear, and tucked her hand between your thighs. “Let me take care of you.” Your eyes went wide and you almost choked, almost protested, decided you had _no_ idea what you’d even say, and reserved to bite your tongue while Lizzie snuck into your jeans and stroked you to climax not two feet away from where her father sat behind the wheel. When she slipped her fingers free and — conspicuously, _somehow_ — sucked them clean was about the time you figured you were going to hell.

And the time you realized you were okay with that fate? The second time you got caught?

Studying, that’s what you were supposed to be doing. In her dorm this time.

You were never much good at it, not when it was just the two of you, because somewhere along the line Lizzie had taken up the habit of gradually stripping down while you worked and pretending it was too hot indoors and that semi states of dress were the only solution. Your problem was _actually_ studying and failing to notice your girlfriend shedding layers until Lizzie asked for your help on an assignment and you were met with a mighty eyeful.

There was no academic facade this time.

Just —

“I’m _bored._ Can we do something else?”

Josie was gone. Recruiting recon of a supposed baby vamp in Roanoke. It was a Friday night. Wouldn’t have hurt you to say yes.

“No. Study.”

“We can play mommy and daddy,” Lizzie suggested instead.

She was down to her Calvins, a sinfully snug cotton bralette and the smallest boxer briefs she owned, and when you looked up from your _History of Water Creatures_ textbook you damn near choked on your breath.

With blonde locks spilling over her shoulders and tickling the top of her breasts, cheeks the color of bubblegum from a type of heat that could _not_ be blamed on the old building, and pale skin soft enough for you to sink your teeth into, Lizzie’s closest comparison was the goddess of beauty herself. And you loved looking at her.

Still.

You were a day and a half late on a paper and dead set on, _yes_ , actually finishing.

So you collected yourself.

“That’s a quote from Jennifer’s Body, Liz.”

“And what about it?”

You smirked, raked your eyes over every inch of her bare skin that the light touched, and went back to your book. “That’s Ariana Grande.”

“I’m going to _kill_ you.”

“My father, on multiple occasions.”

“This isn’t _working,_ ” Lizzie whined, reaching over to snatch the textbook from your hands. She looked at the half-page illustration and pulled a face. “ _Gross._ What am I looking at?”

“A Kappa.” You shrugged. “Malicious Japanese demon. The prettiest of creatures, they are _not._ ”

“Why don’t you come study something prettier, then?”

That’s when Lizzie’s hands started moving and your willpower went topsy-turvy.

Maybe it _was_ too hot, you thought suddenly, old pipes and all, or maybe Lizzie was _making_ it hot with the power she’d begun to pull from the pillow she had her hand on. You’d done enough in that bed to soak the thing through with magic, no shortage, and Lizzie played it like a favorite instrument.

_History of Water Creatures_ slid from her lap as she rose to her knees. Your fingertips tingled, your head spun. Lizzie’s pupils blew. Heavy hands fell to your legs and pulled, hard, until you lay flat on your back with your knees up and propped open for Lizzie to tuck herself right in-between where she always fit so well.

“Lizzie,” you warned. “What are you doing?”

“I want to play,” she sighed out, “and you’re making it _difficult_. My turn now.”

You hadn’t played that game before.

It’d always been your call, your way, your world. 

Even when Lizzie talked sweet and took what she wanted from you, it was only because you _let_ her. Because she felt like grace and moved like wonder and you’d be doing a disservice if you didn’t let her have her way.

This felt different.

When her hands skimmed your thighs until disappearing beneath your skirt it felt like being wrapped in chains. When her nails bit into your skin you felt a thousand tiny fires ignite in your core. Her mouth found your ear and each one of her words was a new covenant, and you’d never prayed a day in your life, but then and there you knew sinking to your knees for Elizabeth Saltzman was the least you’d do.

Your every breath fed her, every second gone by with her hands on your skin was a second spent yielding. Relinquishing. Whether you realized you were doing it or not.

Lizzie pulled and you gave in.

A transfer of power.

Her fingers snuck beneath your underwear and she began to pull there, too, murmuring, “ _ad sumus_ ,” against your ear as she drew them down your legs, and _yes,_ you thought, _here we are_.

And _here is warm_ , and _wherever you are_ , you thought, _is where I belong_.

“What are you doing to me?” you whispered, catching her face in your hands to keep her _right there_ where you could look at her for a moment. 

Lizzie smiled. “Nothing you can’t handle,” she told you softly.

You were already hers, but you’d give yourself to Lizzie a thousand times over if she asked you to.

“Look at me, Hope,” she said, stroking you between your thighs, and you did, and awe flooded your veins. When she pressed her fingers into you and whispered, “ _auribus teneo lupum_ ,” your heart cracked open, and you realized she must’ve been studying all along, since the very beginning, and it was _you_ who’d fallen behind, prey to her predatory distraction. You didn’t mind.

So long as she kept plucking your strings, bending you to her will.

And she did.

She left you in your skirt and popped the buttons on your blouse until it fell open over your chest. You liked being bare while there was still light, while the warm glow of the bedside lamp painted your skin in yellow and white, while you had only milliseconds before you began to burn at the hand of your girlfriend. Scorching and ruinous, that’s how it felt to be full of Lizzie’s fingers while she pressed two of the other hand’s past your lips and demanded _suck, daddy_ , and — fuck it, fine, Lizzie Saltzman definitely has a daddy kink, but that’s not important.

“You opened right up for me,” she said against your chest, and you sighed dreamily, fighting to keep your eyes from closing. When she caught one of your nipples in her mouth and pulled it with her teeth, soothed it with her tongue, and, “So _easy_ ,” she giggled out, you whined, desperate and shameless and eager to be ruined.

Should’ve known she’d toy with you, ask you things like, “Is that enough for you, daddy?” and, “Can’t your pretty little hole take more than that?” when she was three fingers deep and hungry to take even more and you couldn’t stop clenching and finally had to let your eyes fall shut.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” you whined. “Don’t —”

“What? Take what’s mine?”

You didn’t have anything to say to that.

You didn’t mind being at her mercy, either, almost wished she’d have done this sooner, flipped the script. It was painfully easy for you to lose your footing in dominance, you were learning, but it tickled you. Made something curl up warm and low in your stomach to know just how readily you’d fallen at the hand of Lizzie Saltzman. There was no way you couldn’t have, surely, because she knew what made you tick and you knew how much she liked to get her way.

“On your belly, little wolf,” she ordered, words piercing straight through to your core.

You obeyed before you realized you’d willed yourself to move. Lizzie made you easy like that, always, but this brand of obedience was new even for you.

Hands and knees.

Lizzie flipped your skirt up over your ass, took you by the back of the neck, and shoved you down to your elbows. You went easily — _again_ — with a little huff. You liked being pliable beneath her hands, those witchy weapons, and when she bent you over and bared you to her hungry eyes it made you feel worthy, exposed, priceless, and when she purred like a predatory feline you clenched around nothing and felt yourself begin to leak.

Her fingers dipped between your thighs and spread you open, held you there, left you teetering on the sharp edge of sanity while she just _looked_. And you were meant to wait. In silence. You bit your tongue, reserved to take what you were given.

“So pretty and pink,” she cooed, thumbing over your entrance, barely pressing in. “You should offer yourself up for the taking more often. It’s a good look on you.” And though she barely touched you, you felt her everywhere. At the tip of your tongue, in the stretch of muscle along your back, in the pit of your soul, and at the crux of your thighs. She was there, everywhere.

You wouldn’t have spoken even if you had the right words. You just — _whimpered_. That’s what Lizzie reduced you to.

Your hips eased back, sought friction, attention, anything, but all it earned you was a firm slap to your aching clit. You weren’t sure you liked this game but _fuck_ if it didn’t feel good. Whatever Lizzie gave, you’d take. Happily. Desperately.

It was hard not to beg, but your body did that for you, and anyhow you still hadn’t any of the right words. When you spilled out onto Lizzie’s hand she tsked, wiped it right onto the back of your thigh, and told you, “You’re going to make a mess of mommy’s sheets,” which certainly didn’t help a thing. Just made you ache, clench, and want to milk her dry, and if she had a cock you would have done just that. You hated how much you liked it, the words and their effect.

She’d been calling you _daddy_ for so long it was second nature by now, but she’d never once _actually_ called herself —

_No_ , you thought, _not going there_.

But you wanted to.

You’d heard it once and once was enough.

You weren’t thinking about how hot your cheeks burned, or how heavily your heart thundered in your chest, least you were _trying_ not to, but on all fours with Lizzie at your back and _still_ holding your cunt spread open with her fingers was turning everything into a strenuous fucking struggle and you weren’t sure how much longer this could go on before you crumbled to dust. Most of all you were trying not to think about how easy, how _nice_ , it would be to let your hero fully fall and give way to the part of you that was still young and vulnerable and longing to be taken care of.

Lizzie hummed.

You tried to breathe.

“Sweet girl,” she muttered, “so messy for me,” easing her fingers into you, again, _finally_ , and you forgot what it felt like to feel empty. You hoped you never remembered.

You didn’t hear the footsteps approach the door, no, you were far too preoccupied with trying not to collapse while Lizzie fucked you open from behind, stroked you from the inside, and rubbed the small of your back with her other hand like you needed the comforting. Maybe you did, no way of knowing, you were fairly far gone, but it felt nice. Warm. Lizzie was always warm. All you knew for sure was you’d just about sell your soul to prolong the moment.

Nothing good can last, don’t they say?

The door swung open without a knock, and, “Lizzie, sweetheart, I’ve got your Sero— ** _OH_** _, Christ,_ this is not for my eyes,” Dr. Saltzman gasped out, yanking the door shut as quick as he’d opened it.

Lizzie stilled with her fingers _still_ buried in you and you’d have slapped the sense right back into her if you hadn’t been busy mourning the loss of your impending orgasm. Instead you let out a strangled gasp as your heart picked up its rhythm again, and, somewhat reluctantly, knocked the blonde’s hands away from you so you could scramble to do the buttons of your shirt back up.

“Girls?” Dr. Saltzman called hesitantly, disappointed but not surprised, from right outside the door. “New rule, yeah? Soon as you’re both _decent_ I want this door to stay open. We good on that?”

“Or you could learn how to turn a lock,” you grumbled at your girlfriend, snatching up Lizzie’s long forgotten shirt and pitching it at her face.

“Sorry, daddy,” Lizzie said aloud to her father as much as to you. Her smirk didn’t look too sorry, but it looked good on her. 

You quit fighting, shaking your head even as you smiled bashfully at your hands.

You and Lizzie were never much good at hiding. 

Perhaps you were never meant to.

**Author's Note:**

> if you hate it come yell at me on twitter @TRIBRlD :)


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